Innocence, Vengeance, Bloodlust then Revenge
by Wynter S. Komen
Summary: What if Sansa Stark took matters into her own small hands after the death of her lord father? What if Joffrey met his demise a different way, and much sooner? This one-shot will explore what happens when innocence is stolen; when vengeance implants and grows. When bloodlust fills the soul, and when it all culminates in sweet, sweet revenge. Rated M.


**A/N: I had pulled this story down from a while ago, as I wasn't sure about it. I did some tweakage and editing, and after all, my name is "winter is coming". Therefore...this story belongs up here.**

**What would happen if Sansa Stark took matters into her own hands? Set during the events following the first book. **

**I'd love a review for this one-shot, Thronies. I've got some other ideas for the world of Westeros - more, like winter, is coming.**

She trailed her pale hand in the clear, cold water of the reflecting pool in the godswood, sending ripples over her reflection.

When they settled, she studied the bright blue eyes that looked back at her, the long, silken red hair that so many at King's Landing found so beautiful. She looked at her rosy cheeks, the tender, pouty mouth that gave her face its glowing beauty, its innocence.

It was a lie.

Sansa Stark had once been innocent. She had once been the sweet, idealistic girl full of silly, romantic notions, all excited at the prospect of being swept off to King's Landing to _marry a prince! _A strong, dashing blonde boy with bright green eyes that had captured her heart the moment she'd seen them across the cold stone hall of Winterfell, so many months ago.

But when that same dashing prince had coldly ordered her father's head to be removed from his body with his own sword, despite Sansa's heart-wrenching pleas for mercy, that sweet, young, silly girl had vanished. She'd been replaced with a grief-stricken, abused, angry, plotting young woman with vengeance in her heart.

It was this vengeance that carried her through her days, now. It was the only thing that warmed her when she went to sleep at night. She took it to bed with her, dreamed of it, woke with it, ate with it, bathed and primped herself with it. Without it, she would turn into a shell, a husk of herself, and she'd die, languishing slowly within the halls of the castle that had once pleased her so much.

Shortly after her father's murder, the next day in fact, that vengeance had shown itself briefly to her former love, her still-betrothed. Joffrey had paraded her through the castle, showing her his collection of traitors' heads on spikes. The gruesome sight had churned her guts and threatened to bring up what little breakfast she'd been able to choke down. He'd cruelly saved his favorite trophy for last, forcing Sansa to look at it. She'd refused at first until he'd grabbed her beautiful red hair roughly and yanked her head up. Sansa's tear-filled eyes looked upon the face of the head, noting the straggly strawberry blonde hair, the aquiline nose, the scruffy beard that had once belonged to her lord father. She remembered as a little girl how her father would tickle her and Arya's faces with his scruffy beard, making her and her sister shriek with laughter.

She'd shut her eyes then, squeezed them tightly closed, refusing to let Joff and his trained pet, Ser Meryn Trant, see her tears. She had promised Joffrey that one day, her brother, the brave new King in the North, would bring her _his _head. Then the hitting had begun.

Joff loved to beat her, but he never did it himself and he never allowed his pets to beat her face, because he liked her pretty, except for a few slaps here and there to keep her in line. He loved to beat her publicly, at court, for everyone to see. He loved to have her dresses torn, exposing her pitifully to all present, and have blows rained down upon her. The Imp had shown her kindness, once; he'd stopped the awful display and humiliated his pompous, cruel little nephew and Sansa had taken her leave as gracefully and in as dignified a manner as she could, though her hands had trembled when she held the remnants of her bodice together and tears stained her cheeks. They could never force her to walk with a lowered head though, and Sansa held hers so high her nose pointed toward the vaulted ceiling of the castle.

After that, she kept the threats of vengeance to herself and gave King's Landing what they seemed to want – the scared, helpless little Lady Sansa from the North whose lord father and brother had turned traitor against the rightful king, Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name. She was sweet, she was sad, she was simple-minded and perfectly courteous and gracious – all how a well-bred young lady should be in the face of such a grave situation.

But on the inside, her hatred boiled over anew. She hated them all – she hated Ser Ilyn Payne for wielding Ice, her father's own sword that had taken his life. She hated Ser Meryn Trant for beating her and doing everything Joff said. She hated the Imp, just because he was a freak of nature and related to the Lannisters. She hated Queen Cersei and her smugness, her veiled threats, her blind loyalty to her insane son. And most of all, she hated Joffrey. She hated him where she had once loved him, with every fiber of her being.

She hated him, and she wanted him dead.

At first, she'd expected her brothers Robb and Jon to come rushing to King's Landing once news of their father had reached them; rushing in to kill the Lannisters and save her. Robb would bring her Joff's head and kneel humbly at her feet and tell her that no sister of his would ever suffer such intolerable, cruel acts without punishment. And she would take Joff's head, kiss her brother's cheek, and then fling the perfect gift over the wall of King's Landing. Maybe she would even toss it in the air like a ball and kick it with all her might. They would take their father's remains from the castle and his head from the spike and replace them with Cersei's, the Imp's, the false knights, whoever dared to cause her pain or laugh at it, and then they would go North, home to Winterfell. And Sansa could be reunited with her mother again and her sister, and Bran and little Rickon, although he couldn't be too little anymore, and the wolves, and all her friends. Her father's friends. She would be back among her people, where she belonged, and she didn't care if she ever married or had children.

But as the days wore on, and turned into weeks, and then stretched into months, it became painfully clear that neither Robb nor Jon nor anyone else who was aligned with House Stark was going to be rushing in from anywhere to save her. Had they decided she wasn't worth the trouble? Had they assumed the Lannisters had already killed her? Worse yet – did they blame her and hold her accountable?

Sansa wasn't sure when it happened, but gradually the thought came to her that she could take matters into her own two small, tender hands. Her hatred had only grown when Joff had cast her aside for Margaery Tyrell. Sansa wasn't upset that he no longer wanted to marry her; indeed, she was relieved. She was upset because he still insisted on keeping her at King's Landing for no other purpose than to order her into his bed one day.

At first the fantasy of murdering Joffrey and Cersei was merely a thought that comforted her mind and helped pass the time of day. As she broke her fast with the Queen, or worked on her needlework, or practiced her dancing, or learned her lessons and languages and histories from the Septa, she would spin delicious scenes of bloodlust and murder. Sometimes she was a fierce white direwolf, like Lady, and she would rip off his arms and legs and his stupid pouty lips, reveling in the taste of his hot blood dripping down her throat. Other times she envisioned being in court, and suddenly wrenching a sword from one of the knights and faster than anyone could blink, she would charge Joffrey on the Iron Throne and run him through with the sharp metal, delighting in watching the light going out of his eyes. Sometimes she envisioned attending the Queen at bath time and holding her pretty blonde head under the water as she thrashed and thrashed, soaking Sansa's dress until finally, her lungs filled with water and went still. But most often, she fantasized about taking supper with them both and watching as they filled their mouths with roasted goose, a special one that Sansa cooked herself, and choking. And Sansa would rise from her seat, laughing at them while their faces reddened, then turned blue, then purple, and finally black as the poison wreaked havoc on their bodies. And they would die, with their stupid Lannister faces buried in the remnants of their specially seasoned meal, the smell of piss and shit in the air as their bodies released their lives.

She thought of these different scenes all day long, every day. When she thought of them in court, or out and about taking the air of King's Landing, the thoughts would make her smile, her dimple suddenly appearing in her soft pale cheek. And she would draw the attention of the Kingsguard and the knights and the other nobles, taken with sweet, sad little Sansa Stark's pretty smile and lamenting how Joffrey had cast her aside for sixteen-year-old Margaery Tyrell. And then the thought that they found her pretty, sweet and sad while she was secretly fantasizing about ripping out Joffrey's throat made her smile harder, her dimple digging in deeper, until she burst out laughing melodiously and they became even more taken with her.

Then, one night came that brought her a dream. A very vivid, sensual dream that left her gasping and hot, her body bathed in sweat as she woke with a start.

She had taken to her bed and prepared for sleep as she always did, spinning fantasies of new and creative ways to end Joffrey's miserable life until she was lulled by her own visions to a deep slumber. And then a dream so vicious had come to her, vicious and beautifully brutal, cruel, that left her the victor. She had seduced Joffrey, and at the peak of his pleasure, she had murdered him. She had taken a wickedly curved dagger into her hand and just as his mouth opened to let out a moan of delight, she had taken the blade and shoved it all the way down his throat, her wrist twisting the handle back and forth, to and fro, as she delighted in watching his blood spurt everywhere, turning his snow white bed linens the deep, bright red color of the Lannister sigil. And upon the red background, the little Lannister lion, once so full of life and so proud, lay dead. She'd then pulled the dagger from his throat and mouth slowly, watching his dead body with fascination, and licked the blade clean, relishing the bright copper taste on her tongue. She had pulled up off of him slowly, swung her leg over him, and hopped off his bed, leaving his sad, bloody corpse to be found in the morning as she skipped out of the castle.

As she'd come to from the dream, sitting up and gasping for air, she realized that was it. That was how she could take her revenge. And not satisfied with just the little monster but the even worse creature that had borne him, Sansa set her sights on murdering the whore Queen as well.

Joffrey would be easy enough; his mother, not so much.

After spending two weeks of debating all day how to handle Cersei, Sansa decided she had nothing to lose and needed to acquire some assistance. She was prepared to lose her own life, at times welcomed it, and after much deliberation and worry, consulted her handmaiden, Shae. The young woman was a mystery to her; her softly slurring accent pleasant on the ears while her quick, suspicious dark brown eyes took in everything and missed nothing. One day when Shae was combing out Sansa's long red hair, she asked her question.

"Do you know of a poison that will melt a person's insides?"

Shae's startled eyes met Sansa's cool blue ones as Sansa turned her head to look up at her. She narrowed her eyes.

"Why on earth would you want to know such a thing, m'lady?" the handmaiden asked, resuming combing Sansa's silky smooth hair.

Sansa didn't hesitate. "Because I plan to murder the Queen and her abominable seed, my former betrothed. The King."

Shae dropped the ivory comb and Sansa watched, perturbed, as it shattered into a thousand pieces on the stone floor of the bedroom. Shae clamped a slender hand over Sansa's mouth as her dark eyes darted to the windows of the chamber.

"You must not," Shae hissed, shaking Sansa gently. "You must not speak of such things. You will get us both killed."

Sansa jerked her head away and rose from her chair, spinning away from the handmaiden. "I care _not_," she whispered back harshly. "I am willing to give up my life in exchange for theirs. They _took _my whole family from me," Sansa added, her voice rising and shaking with rage. "I am a Stark of Winterfell. On the honor of my House – I shall not let them go unanswered!"

"You are a young girl," Shae hissed back to her. "And you are not a Lannister who 'pays their debts'. I can help you escape for home but I will not let you murder yourself in the process."

"You _will _help me escape North," Sansa said evenly. "And you _will_ help me find the poison. You can escape the confines of this castle. I cannot. You know people. I know what you did and who you were before you came here."

That seemed to truly startle Shae. She stopped and glared at Sansa suspiciously. "Just what do you _think_ you know?"

Sansa gave her a little smirk. "I know you were a whore," she said flatly. "And I know you are fucking the Imp."

Shae regarded her coolly, and the foul word burned on Sansa's lips. "Where did you hear such a word, m'lady?" the maid asked calmly, unimpressed.

Her tone, her placating tone as though Sansa were a child, filled her with fury. "I'm a woman grown," Sansa said. "I've received my flowering. I know what _fucking_ is."

"_Where_, m'lady?" Shae folded her arms.

Sansa frowned and dropped her eyes to her feet. "I've heard it from many before. I've overheard some of the knights speak that way of the women who belong to Lord Baelish. I've even heard the Queen say it. I've heard the Hand speak that way to the Imp of the whores he fills his bed with."

Shae was quiet for a very long time at Sansa's last words. "A young lady does not speak that way," she said finally, emotionlessly. "Not a lady of House Stark."

"I am no lady anymore," Sansa whispered. "Not really. All I think of is murdering them. I had a dream. A vision. I felt Joffrey's blood. I tasted it. You must help me."

Shae refused to hear any more and put her to bed that night without another word, much to Sansa's annoyance and despair. Over the course of the next several weeks, Shae would not look at her or speak to her beyond what was acceptable and necessary as she gave Sansa her meals, helped her dress and bathe, waited on her. But she would disappear for many hours each afternoon, leaving before Sansa's daily lessons with the Septa and not reappearing until suppertime. Sansa had given up on her handmaiden's assistance, and began to fear the worst. The wretch had probably sold her out to the knights or to the Kingsguard and Sansa began to fear for her life. She expected each day and night to be taken into custody for treason, beheaded and snuffed out like a candle's flame.

One evening as Sansa was supping, Shae entered her chamber. The maid did not look at her but instead extended a hand and placed a small vial on the table. Sansa's hand dropped over it immediately and she stared at her maid.

"Is this…?" she began.

Shae gave her a curt nod. "Yes," she said, and with that one word, all of Sansa's breath left her body. "It is what you requested."

"Is that where you've been going each day?" Sansa whispered.

"I have been making preparations for your departure," Shae replied. "And mine. We shall go our separate ways. If we are found, we are dead. If we are found together, we are tortured and _then_ we are dead."

Sansa nodded quickly, gripping the vial in her hands. "You must tell me how to do this," she said, still whispering.

Shae looked at her finally, scornfully. "Why?" she demanded. "I thought you had your plot of vengeance worked out."

"I know what to do to Joff," Sansa said. "I don't know how to take care of the Queen."

"Leave it to me," Shae said. "I will think of something for that tow-headed, incestuous bitch."

"I need your help with something else," Sansa said.

"Yes, what?" Shae asked irritably.

"I need your assistance with –" Sansa struggled and blushed. "That is, I do not know how –" Shae merely looked at her. Sansa blew out a sharp breath between her lips and swallowed her mortification and modesty. "Please teach me the art of seduction."

Shae let out a short laugh. "You are but a girl."

"I've received my flowering," Sansa argued again. "You know this. I am a woman." She bit her lip. "I wish to make Joff believe I have come to his bed. He told me after he became betrothed to Lady Margaery that even though he had cast me aside, he would always still want me in his bed. That was in my vision. When he is at his most unguarded moment, I will then take my revenge."

Shae pursed her lips and studied Sansa for several long moments. Finally, she rose and held out her hand. "You must go and lie on the bed," she said softly. "And I will teach you everything you need to know."

* * *

><p>It took a proper month for the arrangements to be finalized and the plan to be ironed out. But Sansa was ready.<p>

She was ready.

One afternoon, she skipped down to the kitchen and took the cook by surprise. "I wish to bake the Queen a treat," she announced cheerfully. "I want to give her something sweet as a token of my affection and gratitude that she has not turned me out onto the street even though my father was a traitor and my brother _is_ a traitor and that our lovely King has chosen another for his bride." She made her blue eyes wide with sad understanding. "I wish to present it to her at her evening meal."

The cook was only too happy to oblige, falling into Sansa's trap beautifully. By involving the cook, she had effectively placed the blame on someone else. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for Sansa to want to bake Cersei a treat. And by bringing it with the entire meal, it would be nearly impossible to decipher immediately what had killed her. Fat Maester Pycelle would take his sweet time figuring it out, and by then Sansa hoped to be merely a memory.

Sansa knew the Queen loved flaky pastries baked and fried hot, stuffed with spiced apples and creamy cheese. She helped the cook bake the tart, chattering girlishly about how she was excited to attend the King's nuptials to Lady Margaery. The cook was only too pleased to assist the lovely Lady Sansa in her pleasant task.

"I shall fetch the Queen's supper tray myself, Cook," Sansa said, wagging a finger.

"Yes, milady," the cook said obediently.

It was common knowledge that as of late the Queen preferred to sup alone, and at a late hour of the night, when she was finished with all of her duties for the day. And also so she could drown herself in the several jugs of wine she demanded be brought to her chamber. When it was late enough she never failed to drink until she passed out from inebriation. Sansa had known this for some time. The Queen was moody lately, seeming to be suffering from some great sadness, some great worry. Sansa knew not what it was, nor did she care.

She balanced the tray in her hands carefully as she carried it through the castle that night to the Queen's chambers. She looked it over, noting with surprise how healthy an appetite the Queen always seemed to have. She demanded roasted pigeons stuffed with sage, mushrooms, and onions; flat bread fried to a crisp golden brown; stewed apples and pears brimming with cinnamon and sweet syrup. And, there on its own little plate, decorated with freshly picked jasmine blossoms from the garden, was the tart that Sansa had baked especially for her.

Sansa knew that when she turned the corner just up ahead, leading her to the final corridor that would take her to Cersei's chamber, she would come face to face with the Kettleblacks, the two abhorrent twins that the Queen had plucked and paid and promoted to the status of knight. To Sansa, who had always loved knights, and to many others, this was laughable and insulting. However, everyone was deathly afraid of the Lannisters these days and no one dared tell the Queen otherwise.

Sansa leaned against the stone wall and balanced the tray on a lifted knee. She reached into the secret pocket of her dress and her fist clenched around the vial. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that no one was coming, so she pulled the tiny cork from the neck of the vial and carefully poured its odorless, flavorless, and colorless contents into the steam slit of the pastry.

She had just replaced the vial into her pocket when Osmund Kettleblack – _Ser _Osmund Kettleblack, Sansa corrected herself wryly – rounded the corner and stumbled upon her, her hand still in her pocket and the tray still upon her knee.

"What 'ave we here, then?" his raspy voice boomed out. Sansa sucked in a quiet breath through her nose, to still her wildly beating heart at nearly being caught. "What are you doing, little cast-aside?" It was his cruel nickname for her, now that Joffrey had chosen Lady Margaery.

"I – I'm come to bring the Queen her supper, Ser," Sansa mumbled, taking the tray in her hands again and lowering her knee.

"What's that?" Ser Osmund said loudly, cupping a hand to his ear. "Speak up, you little wretch. I can't hear ya."

"I'm come to bring Queen Cersei her supper tray," Sansa repeated, louder.

"You 'ave, 'ave ya?" Ser Osmund said skeptically, eyeing the tray. "Why were you leaning against the wall just now?"

"I tripped, Ser," Sansa explained. "The hem of my dress –"

"So what 'ave we here tonight?" Ser Osmund said, leering over the tray. He actually reached out for a pigeon wing, smirking at Sansa, but she jerked away.

"This is for the _Queen_, Ser," Sansa said, annoyed. The Kettleblacks always gave her such a difficult time for no other purpose than to be mean.

"Yeah, yeah," Ser Osmund muttered. "Go on, then. _Oi, _Osney!" he bellowed around the corner. "Let the little wolf through the door while I take me a piss. She's come with the Queen's supper."

"M'lady," Ser Osney said to Sansa as she approached, but it was completely without the respect the address generally tended to carry, and filled with mocking instead. "'Ow sweet of you. An' 'ow is it that you chose to come deliver the Queen's supper this evening instead of the maid?"

"I wanted to do something nice, Ser," Sansa murmured, lowering her eyes. "The cook has even baked the Queen a special treat. I wanted to show my appreciation."

Ser Osney's eyes narrowed. "Well, aren't you just a sweet little bird," he said again, then jerked his head toward the door. "Go in. She's 'ungry and in a bit of a petulant mood."

Sansa pushed through the doors of the Queen's chamber and immediately saw the beautiful blonde queen at the window, her back to Sansa. She waited until the heavy doors shut behind her before she cleared her throat gently. Cersei turned languidly, and seemed completely unsurprised to see Sansa standing there.

Sansa saw she held her goblet in her hand, and by the way she moved unsteadily from the window, she could tell the Queen was also a little drunk.

"Good evening, little dove," Cersei said to her, her sweet tone slightly mocking. "What are you doing here?"

Sansa dropped a curtsy. "I'm come to bring you your supper, Your Grace," she murmured.

"And why have you taken on such a chore? You're still a noblewoman in my castle, Sansa," Cersei said, rather disapprovingly. "Just because my Joff no longer wants you for his bride doesn't mean you've been relegated to scullery maid." She gripped the back of a chair at the table and took a long pull of the wine. "Set the tray down, Sansa darling. Have a cup of wine with me."

Sansa set the tray down on the table quickly, and Cersei filled another cup with the arbor white that was her favorite and shoved it across the table toward Sansa. The contents sloshed over the sides messily and Sansa hesitantly took the wet cup.

"Drink," Cersei commanded, and Sansa quickly brought the cup to her lips and sipped. "Now. What have you brought me?"

"It is what you requested, Your Grace," Sansa said. "I believe it is stuffed roasted pigeon – "

"I've got eyes, Sansa," Cersei said, glancing at the redheaded girl across from her. She glanced at the tart in the corner of the tray and gestured at it. "What is this?"

"A tart, Your Grace," Sansa said softly, staring at it. "It is an apple and cheese tart. I asked the cook to bake it for you."

"Why would you do such a sweet thing, Sansa darling?" Cersei asked coolly.

Sansa forced herself to look humble and lowered her eyes. "Although the King has decided to set me aside and marry another – "

"Decided rightly," Cersei interrupted. "Go on."

"You have still given me a home and a place here," Sansa went on. "You have not cast me out when you could have. You have treated me as – as –" Sansa sputtered. "_Kindly_ as your own child, as sweetly as Myrcella. You have shown me great kindness and favor and I wanted you to know that I am not worthy of Your Grace's perfect treatment. The tart is a gesture of my appreciation."

Cersei grabbed the pastry. "You mean to thank me with food?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow. She smirked and drained her cup before filling it again. "Why not try treating with your brother Robb and telling him to give up this foolish war and accept that the Lannister rule is the _only_ rule? Or finding Stannis Baratheon and murdering him and his red bitch in their slumber?"

"I – I – " Sansa stuttered.

Cersei looked at her in disgust. "Nevermind, little dove." She took a deep breath and composed herself. "This was a kind gesture. And it looks and smells quite nice." But instead of taking a bite, Cersei set it down on the plate. Sansa's stomach tightened with stress. She had a sudden horrible urge to rush over and stuff it down the Queen's throat.

"Sit with me, Sansa darling," Cersei said, wobbling a little in her heels as she pulled her chair out. "Dine with me."

Sansa thought to protest, but it would never do to refuse the Queen. She sat silently while the Queen served her a portion of everything on the tray, except the tart.

"Tell me, my young sweetling," Cersei said, picking at the pigeon. "What do you think of our lovely Lady Margaery?"

Sansa chewed a mushroom slowly as she considered her answer. "I think Lady Margaery is very pretty and kind. She has many graces enviable among young women and she loves the King so much."

Cersei studied her over the rim of her goblet. "Well done, Sansa," she said finally. "Very well done. Your mother would be proud."

Sansa looked up. "Your Grace?"

"So gracious, you are," Cersei said with mock admiration. "She taught you well. Even after being cast aside you've still nothing but the sweetest of things to say of our little soon-to-be Queen."

"Lady Margaery has never been anything but kind to me, Your Grace," Sansa said, dropping her eyes to her plate.

Cersei leaned forward. "Lady Margaery is an ambitious little bitch who can't wait to sit on my Joff's little prick and fuck away his loyalty from me," she hissed.

Sansa was genuinely taken aback. She had no idea of the Queen's true feelings for Lady Margaery; jealousy and hatred was evident in every line of her.

"Your Grace," Sansa said slowly. "I believe that Lady Margaery respects you as the one true Queen of Westeros. She loves Joff and wishes to do only that which will make him happy."

Cersei stared at her again, then burst out laughing. Her laughter was tinged with hysteria. "I'm only the Queen _Regent_," she said. "Once Margaery weds and beds my son, she holds the power. And, my darling Sansa," she leaned forward and grabbed Sansa's hand, "trust me when I tell you that what would make Joff happy is if I pack my bags and leave King's Landing to retire to Casterly Rock for the rest of my days, and rot there."

"Your Grace," Sansa murmured, looking at Cersei's hand still clutching her own, "I do not believe that is true. You are the King's own mother; he loves you."

Cersei laughed again, withdrawing her hand to pick up her goblet and drank its contents down. Sansa watched, fascinated at the way Cersei's throat worked as she gulped the wine down seemingly in one go. She slammed the goblet down on the table and reached for the jug of wine again, refilling her glass.

"Ser Osney," Cersei shouted suddenly, making Sansa jump. Her stomach clenched nervously as she slowly turned to look over her shoulder when the door opened.

"Yes, Your Grace?" Ser Osney said.

"Bring me more wine. This jug is empty. Bring me more arbor white."

"Yes, Your Grace." Osney backed out and shut the door.

"As I recall," the Queen said, pouring some of her glass into Sansa's half-full cup, "arbor white was always your favorite, too, wasn't it, sweetling?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa murmured.

"Then drink up, girl," Cersei said abruptly. She tore off a pigeon wing and ripped the meat from the bone with her sharp, white teeth. Sansa hurriedly sipped at her cup, beginning to worry. This was not going to plan.

"You should thank your lucky bloody stars, Sansa darling," Cersei went on, poking through her plate with her knife. "You don't want to be Queen. Believe me."

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa said.

"It's nothing but a lot of muck and shit," Cersei said. "Meetings and wars and laws and punishments and court. You've always got a target on your back."

_Maybe _you _do,_ Sansa thought. She had always wanted to be a sweet and gentle queen, righteous and revered queen.

"Then you must also know your duties as a wife," Cersei added. She stared off into space, chewing at a piece of the fry bread. "You must lay and fuck for your husband whenever he wants. No matter how many other whores he fucks. No matter how drunk he is. No matter how many times he beats you. No matter how disgusting you find him."

Sansa knew she was talking about Robert. She had never known how much the Queen had truly hated her husband.

Cersei's eyes snapped back to her and she let out a bitter laugh. "What did you ever really know about my Joff?" she demanded, pointing a finger at Sansa. "What did you ever really know about making him happy?"

Sansa's mouth opened to answer but no words would come out.

"You know _nothing_, little dove," Cersei said venomously. "Nothing at all. You would never have made Joff happy. He would have grown tired of you. He would have killed you one day. All you know how to do is say 'yes, Your Grace' and 'no, Your Grace' and dance and look pretty." Her eyes lit drunkenly on the cold tart on the plate. Her hand grabbed for it and she lifted and shook it. "And bake pretty little tarts to show your _appreciation._" She laughed cruelly. "Let's see what your appreciation tastes like."

Sansa held her breath, the Queen's cruel barbs rolling off her like water as she fixed her eyes on the pastry. As if in slow motion, the Queen brought it to her mouth and took an enormous – and, in Sansa's opinion, rather unladylike – bite and chomped at it almost angrily. She stared into Sansa's eyes as she chewed, hardly pausing for breath before following up with another huge bite. With a final third bite, the pastry was gone and Cersei licked her fingers.

"Well," she said presently. "Your little treat is gone. It was representative of your appreciation, you say? How appreciative do you feel now?"

Cersei was biting off her words, and was being frightfully aggressive all of a sudden. Sansa wondered if the dram of poison would even work on her.

"I am still and will always be very appreciative, Your Grace," Sansa said softly, trying hard not to stare at the Queen.

Cersei rose abruptly from her chair, shoving dishes and the tray away from her as she went. "Well, how sweet, little dove. Your _appreciation_ tasted delicious. Perhaps you should give my son a taste of it as well."

_That's the plan, if you would only drop dead_, Sansa thought fiercely, watching as the Queen stumbled back toward the window.

"How does it make you feel, little Sansa," Cersei said from the window, "to know that some other woman will soon be fucking your love in your place?"

Sansa bit back a smirk. "I have no opinion on that matter, Your Grace," she said quietly from her seat. "Lady Margaery will be the King's bride and as such matters of a husbandly and wifely nature are none of my business."

"Joff will still want you in his bed," Cersei said, then coughed after her large sip of wine. "I can see it in his eyes whenever he looks at you. He feels as though he possesses you. That's why you're still here. He won't be satisfied if he can't have you." She took another sip of wine, and coughed again. "What do you say to that, sweetling?"

"I'm happy to be of any service to the King as he sees fit, Your Grace," Sansa murmured, and Cersei turned and met her gaze, a smile crossing her face.

"That's the first thing you've said all night that I agree with," she said. Sansa could see her face was reddening and her eyes appeared bloodshot and felt new interest. "You must always do as Joff commands. You know how he is. You know what he's capable of."

Sansa immediately thought back to the beatings she'd received at his order and a tiny shiver of hatred coursed through her. "Yes, Your Grace."

"I never liked him beating you, Sansa," Cersei said suddenly as though she could read Sansa's mind. "I never liked it. I tried to make him stop, but, you see, even _I_ can't control him." A sudden series of hard, wracking coughs suddenly overtook her. Sansa's head snapped up.

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" Sansa asked evenly.

"Yes, yes," Cersei spluttered. "I've a tickle in my throat all of a sudden." She coughed again, then again, and when she pulled her hand away, there was blood on her fingers. "Oh."

Sansa rose slowly from her chair. "Your Grace?" she said, making her voice sound fearful although she knew her blue eyes were beginning to dance merrily.

Cersei was hunched over by the window and looked up at Sansa, who was slowly approaching her. "Can I call someone, Your Grace?" she asked, putting concern into her voice. "Grand Maester Pycelle, perhaps?"

Cersei coughed again, then suddenly vomited. She began to gasp for air as her eyes turned even redder, and her face began to turn the color of the sweet red plums Sansa loved in the summertime.

Sansa continued her approach, looking at the mess on the stone floor with amusement before shifting her eyes to the struggling Queen. Cersei gripped at the window sill, but couldn't stop her body from falling to a knee as she continued to choke. Her goblet fell from her hand, splashing arbor white everywhere.

Sansa _tsked_. "You're making a mess, Your Grace," she said softly, grinning when the Queen met her eyes again.

Understanding, accusation and utter disbelief passed into Cersei's eyes in an instant. "You," she choked violently, the word almost lost under the rumble and splutter of her throat. Her fingers clawed at her neck. "_You!_"

Sansa leaned down to peer into the blonde queen's face. "Me," she whispered back simply. She straightened and stepped back carefully when her skirts came close to making contact with the queen's messes on the floor. She watched with curious detachment as the Queen continued to choke and splutter, wheezes singing through her throat as she struggled for air. She kept bringing up blood, the thick red liquid bubbling past her lips, staining her face and her neck and hands, her dress. She was even getting it in her long, wavy blonde hair.

Cersei's bright green eyes clouded over, lost in a sea of red, and she fell over on her back. Sansa moved to her side, crouching down and still watching her face with fascination. Cersei was mostly quiet now, her body twitching violently, her eyes rolling. Suddenly, her hand shot up from the floor and fisted into Sansa's silken hair, tugging with incredible strength.

Sansa bit back a yowl of surprise and jerked reflexively, sharp pain suddenly shooting through her scalp as Cersei tightened her hold.

Sansa managed to get one of her shoes off, and with a heavy grunt, brought the hard wooden heel down into Cersei's face. Cersei jerked and made another choking sound but didn't lessen her hold. Sansa struggled against the iron fist in her hair and brought the shoe down again, and again, and again, until Cersei's once beautiful face was a bloodied, bashed mess of bone and torn flesh. The corner of Sansa's wooden heel had gone into Cersei's eye at one point and it had burst with blood, the green orb lost in a sea of viscous red fluid.

Sansa was panting and noticed that Cersei's hand had finally dropped from her hair. She moved backward, away from the body, and gasped for air, feeling frightened and exhilarated all at the same time. She studied Cersei's body. It was perfectly still and unmoving. Sansa replaced her shoe and nudged the body with the toe of her foot. The body moved with the action of her foot but didn't stir. Sansa kicked her in the side as hard as she could. She heard a sickening _crunch_ of ribs giving way, but no expulsion of breath, no cry of pain. Finally, Sansa reached out and placed two fingers against Cersei's throat, feeling for a pulse or some indication of life. She watched Cersei's chest and it stayed still – no rise or fall of breath.

A satisfied smile pulled at one corner of Sansa's sweet, innocent mouth.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a sharp knock on the door. "Wine, Your Grace," she heard Ser Osney call.

She almost panicked, but the cool hand of vengeance settled on her shoulder and her mind calmed. She cleared her throat and cupped a hand around her mouth.

"Sansa, darling," she called faintly. "Answer the door and then tell Ser Osney and his twin to leave me be."

Sansa then walked to the door and opened it a crack, seeing Ser Osney's face immediately. She reached through the space and took the jug.

"Ser Osney, Her Grace wishes me bid you to let her be the rest of the night," she said softly. "She is a bit upset."

"Upset for what?" Ser Osney asked suspiciously.

"Womanly things, Ser," Sansa said demurely, looking down. "She wishes to have more wine and more talk with me, then wishes to be left alone until morning. She does not care to be disturbed by anyone for any reason." Then, Sansa turned her head toward the interior of the room. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace?" she said. She nodded and turned back to Ser Osney, knowing he was watching her. "She has confirmed again what I have told you now and bids no handmaidens come to her chambers. She wishes for me and me alone to help prepare her for bed."

Ser Osney frowned, but nodded. "Tell Her Grace, as she wishes."

Sansa turned her head again. "Ser Osney says, 'as you wish', Your Grace." She turned back once more and smiled at the knight. "Thank you, Ser Osney," she said softly. "That will be all tonight that Her Grace requires."

Ser Osney nodded and stepped away from the door. Sansa shut it gently and turned back to look at Cersei's body on the floor, sipping straight from the jug. She smiled at the sight the way she used to smile at handsome knights at jousting tournaments, at her young siblings playing in the courtyard of Winterfell, at their pet direwolves playing together when they were puppies. She knew she had to spend a quantity of time in here to make her chat with the queen believable, so she walked to Cersei's vanity table and fingered the jewels that spilled out of her oak-carved jewelry box, the carved head of a lion fashioned on top. Sansa took an emerald necklace, a diamond ring, a pearl bracelet and an onyx brooch. These might be good things to have to sell for money later on, or trade for shelter and food somewhere, she reasoned. She spotted a pair of sapphire earrings and held them up to her ears. They matched her blue eyes beautifully and made them sparkle. She placed the earrings in her lobes. These she would keep for herself.

After a while, she went to the door of the chamber and opened it. The Kettleblacks were gone. Sansa slipped out of the door and shut it carefully behind her, wishing she could figure out a way to lock it from the inside.

She had taken three steps from the door when she ran into Grand Maester Pycelle. She caught her breath.

"Good evening, Lady Sansa," the old master said. "Have you come from supping with the Queen?"

"Yes, Grand Maester," Sansa said, then took his arm. "As I have relayed to Ser Osney and Ser Osmund, Her Grace does not wish to be bothered tonight. I sat with her this evening and put her to bed at her command."

"_You_ put her to bed?" the old maester repeated, surprised.

"Yes, Grand Maester," Sansa said sweetly. "She bade me do so. She wishes to remain undisturbed until tomorrow, or else I fear she will be very displeased."

"Yes, yes," Grand Maester Pycelle said anxiously, patting Sansa's hand. "Where are you off to now?"

"My bedchamber," Sansa said. "Would you please escort me?"

"Yes, of course," the old man said, and Sansa bit back a triumphant smile.

* * *

><p>Shae helped her clean Cersei's blood from her hands and hair and helped her dress in a simple white sleep shirt, one under which Sansa wore no underclothes, one that, when standing in front of candlelight, allowed each and every curve of her new womanhood to shine through.<p>

But she was not going to bed. She would not sleep in King's Landing, in her oversized, comfortable bed with its mountains of pillows and blankets, ever again.

Shae combed her long, silky red hair and wound it on top of her head, pulling tendrils down around her face and neck and shoulders. Men loved a woman's bared neck and shoulders, she told Sansa. Loved the curve of her jaw, her ears, her collarbones. The nape of her neck.

Sansa waited until it was after midnight, and then she padded swiftly through the castle to Joffrey's bedchamber. She had hugged Shae goodbye before slipping out the door, knowing it would be the last time she would see her sly, cunning, loyal handmaiden. Shae wouldn't be staying around for this last part of the night's events; Sansa knew she had to take her leave right away. Shae had given Sansa instructions on exactly what to do and where to go when she was through, and left clothes, shoes, a cloak and a bundle of food for Sansa when she returned from Joffrey's chamber. She had kissed Sansa's cheek, her dark eyes fierce and lending Sansa the strength she never expected to need at this stage.

She'd almost been too afraid to go through with it, the realization that she'd murdered the Queen of Westeros making her knees buckle when she'd reached her chamber. Shae had talked her out of quitting, pointing out that she was halfway there, that she had to leave anyway now that Cersei was dead; that she might as well take Joffrey too. She urged Sansa to remember how she felt during the beatings, the abuse, witnessing the death of her lord father at his own sword.

Sansa remembered, and the pain, the anger, the heartbreak she'd locked away in a trunk in her mind with vengeance draped across the top came to the surface again, bubbling swift and hot, lending her the courage she needed.

Now, as she stood outside Joffrey's chamber, that courage and strength and fierce determination borne of vengeance flowed through her strongly. His two guards peered down at her curiously.

"I'm come to see His Grace," she said, suddenly very aware that she was naked except for her thin nightshirt.

"He sent for ya?" one of the guards demanded and Sansa lowered her eyes and shook her head.

The guards exchanged a look, and shared a grin. One of them stepped back and rapped on the door.

"What is it?" Sansa heard Joffrey's petulant voice from behind the door. He didn't sound as if he'd been asleep at all.

"Sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but it seems you've a visitor," the guard called, his eyes glued to Sansa. "A pretty red-headed little bird."

There was a long pause. "Send her in," Joffrey's voice commanded finally.

The guards opened the doors for her, grinning the whole time, and Sansa stepped shyly through the doorway. She jumped a little when the doors closed with a thud behind her. She turned her attention to Joffrey.

He was dressed in his breeches and his white tunic, his doublet hung haphazardly over a chair. He held his crossbow and he was sweating slightly, as though he'd been hunting something in his chamber.

"My Lady Sansa," Joffrey said, ever the gallant boy. He came around the table toward her, his eyes mocking her as they took in her garb. He bent over her hand, his pouty lips brushing her knuckles. "What brings you to my chamber at this hour? And dressed in such a fashion?"

Sansa let her hand trail from his and moved to stand next to his stoked fireplace, the small fire bathing the room in a shadowy warm glow. She stood directly in front of it and faced him, and she could tell from the way his eyes widened and raked over her, he was seeing the effect she'd noticed earlier from the candlelight, now magnified a thousandfold in front of the much larger fire, as her silhouette shone through the sheer white material.

"I'm come to speak to you, Your Grace," she said quietly.

"Speak to me about what," Joffrey murmured absently, his eyes never leaving her torso.

"I'm come to speak to you about what you told me after you betrothed Lady Margaery."

His eyes snapped back to hers. "Are you feeling put out now that I've cast you aside?" His tone had become mocking again.

Sansa pouted a little and Joffrey's eyes followed the movement of her lips. "I confess, Your Grace, my feelings were tenderly hurt at your decision. But because I love you I understand that you must do what you feel is best."

"So you aren't angry with me?" he asked ridiculously, and Sansa suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

"No, Your Grace," she said. She let her eyes drop demurely. "Only curious."

"Curious?" Joffrey repeated, folding his arms.

"You mentioned you would keep me here at King's Landing because you would have me in your bed still," Sansa whispered.

Joffrey's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull, but admirably he caught himself and cleared his throat. "I did say those words to you," he said, trying to make his voice sound deeper.

"Did you mean them?"

"I'm the King," he said impatiently. "I mean everything I say."

Sansa lifted a hand and beckoned him. His eyebrows nearly shot up off his forehead but he complied quickly.

"If you mean what you say," Sansa said. "Then I'm come to make good on your words, Your Grace."

"Sansa," Joffrey said, his brow furrowing. He brought his hands to either side of her face and made her look up at him. "What are you saying? What has gotten into you?"

"I only realize how much I love you, now that I know you will never be mine," Sansa said, making her voice sound sad. "I was angry with you for a time, I admit, Your Grace." She widened her blue eyes. "Are you angry with me for saying so?"

"No, sweet one," Joffrey soothed, stroking her face. It took every ounce of Sansa's restraint not to recoil. "It's only natural to feel that way. I am the King, after all."

Again, Sansa had to focus on his green eyes, slowly darkening with lust, to keep from rolling hers. "Are we still friends, Your Grace?" She shifted her shoulder ever so slightly, the way Shae had showed her, and her nightshirt slipped down her arm, revealing smooth white skin. Joffrey didn't miss it, his eyes following the motion and widening slightly.

"Yes, friends, yes, of course," he mumbled, his hands still on either side of her face.

"Then let me be a friend to you tonight," she whispered. "You are to wed Lady Margaery soon. Though she's been wed twice she remains a virgin. She doesn't know the touch of a man. She might be frightened. Let me help you practice to satisfy your virginal bride, as I am a virgin also."

Joffrey suddenly became the irritable boy she remembered. "What makes you think I can't satisfy my bride?" he demanded, his hands tightening on her face.

"I meant no harm, Your Grace," Sansa hurried to say, bringing her hands up to rest on his. "I only meant – she is so lovely, your betrothed, so sweet and kind. Perhaps I can help show you where on a woman pleases her the most. Then her wedding night with you will be a cherished memory and she will forever be devoted to you and your pleasure."

Sansa had no idea what she was saying, as she hadn't prepared for this, but Joffrey seemed to accept her babble. Or he was merely distracted by the soft curve of the side of her breast, now apparent as her nightshirt moved down her arm a little more. At any rate, he had returned to his calm state and nodded, his fingers playing with the tendrils of her red hair around her shoulders.

"Yes," he said decidedly. "It is a good suggestion, Lady Sansa. I shall allow you to help me practice so that I can bring pleasure to my bride on our wedding night. Not because I don't know how to do it," he hurried to add. "My Dog and some of the knights have told me things. But it would be nice to make her love me if I could make her feel as pleased as I will be feeling."

"You are truly wonderful, Your Grace," Sansa said, making her voice sound dreamy. "I only wish I was still your betrothed."

"You may not be my betrothed any longer, but you can always be my bedfellow," Joffrey pointed out generously.

"I shall take what I can get, Your Grace," Sansa said, and stepped away from him, toward the bed. Joffrey followed her eagerly and reached out. Sansa grabbed his hand before he could touch her. "Lie down, Your Grace," she whispered.

"Me?" Joffrey repeated, confused. Sansa nodded and climbed onto his high bed, beckoning him to follow.

Once he saw her settled among his bedding and pillows, he climbed after her. Sansa immediately reached out and began untying the laces of his tunic. He sat still, letting her, his breathing starting to pick up speed. She pulled his tunic up over his head and tossed it gently aside.

"Now what?" Joffrey whispered.

Sansa remembered what Shae had showed her and rose up on her knees. She gripped the back of Joffrey's neck and leaned in, bringing her lips to his in a sweet kiss that he immediately tried to deepen. She felt his tongue wiggling against her lips like a worm, trying to part them, and suppressed a shudder of disgust. She parted her lips and allowed him entry, cringing at the feeling of his tongue snaking all through the inside of her mouth. When she pulled away he was fairly panting, his green eyes bright with undeveloped lust. He gripped her arms and tugged.

"Not just yet, Your Grace," Sansa whispered, and leaned in again. She pressed her lips softly to either side of his neck, touching the pulses she found there, before trailing her lips down the center of his throat down to his thin chest. He made a noise like a kitten, a whining, high-pitched sound that made her want to laugh at him. Instead, she did as Shae had taught her and pressed a line of kisses down his chest and his stomach.

"Sansa!" he whispered and she straightened and pushed him on his back. He fell back willingly, his eyes wide as they stared up at her. Sansa went through the motions almost robotically, at least to her, having practiced them with Shae so often. But to Joffrey's inexperienced eyes, Sansa should appear as a goddess. "How do you know to do these things?" he demanded softly. He gasped lightly when Sansa swung a leg over him and held herself just above him on her knees, her legs on either side of him. She reached down and grasped the material of her nightshirt.

"My handmaidens taught me what to do when I was preparing for _our _first night," she whispered. "I've only now got the chance to show you."

"You practiced with your handmaids?" he repeated. "You – you kissed them?"

"No, silly," she said, then caught herself. "I mean, Your Grace."

He ignored the slip. "Then how did you practice?"

"With a pillow, Your Grace," Sansa said. She reached down and took his hands, placing them lightly on her thighs. Joffrey sucked in his breath but kept his hands where they were.

"Now what?" he whispered again.

"Now, this," Sansa whispered back, and with a deep breath, she gripped the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, baring herself to him. This would be the hardest part, Shae had told her, as Sansa was a virgin and very timid and modest. This would be harder for her than the actual killing.

Sansa's heart was beating hard and she was grateful for the soft, dim glow in the room to hide her deep blush. She had never in her life expected to be so bold with the opposite sex, not even on her wedding night. But vengeance had a way of making her forget her modesties. At any rate, Joffrey was completely beside himself. She thought he would lose his mind when she settled slowly on top of him, right on his lap. She instantly felt his tiny prick grow hard below her warm core. She pressed herself down harder on him subtly, just the way Shae had told her.

"Gods, Sansa," Joffrey whispered, his eyes huge as they took her in.

"Touch me, Your Grace," Sansa ordered, trying not to choke on the words.

His hands stayed on her thighs, so with a heavy, inward sigh, Sansa took his hands and placed them right on her breasts. Joffrey made a high-pitched whimpering sound.

Sansa reached up slowly and undid her hair, letting it cascade down her back as she subtly placed the instrument Shae had used to hold her hair up behind her back, between Joffrey's legs. She tilted her head back and shook her hair out, feeling Joff's hands tighten on her. She looked down at him and felt another wave of repulsion. He was panting, his mouth open and his eyes bright. His tiny prick twitched and jerked below her core. She leaned forward, her hair falling over her shoulder onto his chest, and kissed his neck again before moving to his lips. His hands shot into her hair, gripping hard as he attacked her mouth in such a way as to make her want to vomit. Finally she pushed away from him and stared down at him, the beguiling smile on her face belying the disgust rippling through her.

He was such a skinny boy, she noted, taking in his arms and chest. He was so tiny that it was almost comical how he tried to present himself as a tyrant.

"Sansa," he panted. "Can I be inside you now?"

Sansa knew from Shae it wouldn't come to that, but she nodded, and with another internal sigh, reached down for the laces of his breeches, slowly untying them and pulling them open. Joffrey was unconsciously making a breathy, high-pitched whining noise as he watched her every move. Sansa frowned at him briefly then paused for a moment, her hands resting on her thighs.

_You must touch him_, Shae's voice echoed in her ear. _You must touch him and bring him pleasure. Only then will he be unguarded enough for you to take your revenge._

"Well?" Joffrey demanded. "Why did you stop?"

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," she murmured, bringing her hands back to him.

He smiled smugly. "Don't be intimidated, Sansa. Remember, you're my friend. I'm helping you as much as you're helping me."

_Intimidated by what?_ Even to Sansa's inexperienced eye, she could tell he was small. She raised her hips off of him slightly and reached down to take the waistband of his breeches in her hands and tugged them down over his skinny hips. Once he was free, she lowered herself back down, perching closer to his thighs this time.

With a deep breath, Sansa met his eyes and trailed her fingers down his stomach before taking him in hand. Joffrey sucked a breath like a fish out of the water at the sensation, his eyes bulging, and he groaned loudly when Sansa's hand tightened around him. She moved her hand the way Shae had showed her, making an up-and-down, twisting motion as Joffrey grew harder in her hand, her other slipping unnoticed behind her to grab the special item that had been tucked away in her hair. She found its hilt and her hand squeezed around it just as her other hand squeezed around Joffrey. He was gasping and carrying on quite shamefully, in Sansa's opinion, and she tilted her head to the side, curiously fascinated by what she was doing and how he was reacting.

"Put it inside you!" Joffrey commanded breathlessly, his hands moving from her breasts to fist into the pillows by his head. Sansa gulped. This wasn't part of the plan. She continued moving her hand as she lifted her hips hesitantly from his and inched upward, her hand clutching the dagger rising behind her back. The time was nigh.

Suddenly, Joffrey let out a howl and white matter spurted from the tip of his prick, a substance unlike any Sansa had ever seen before. She barely had time to register that it covered her hand. _Now_, a calm voice in her mind commanded. As Joffrey's body twitched below her and his mouth opened wide to gasp again, Sansa took a deep breath and swiftly raised the dagger in her hand and brought it slamming down with practiced force.

Shae had given her pillows to practice with. The first time she'd tried this, the dagger had barely pierced the cushion. But the end of the month and half of her practice, she could viciously rip apart cushions and pillows without much effort.

She hadn't known what it would be like to stab a human being through the mouth, so she had used all the strength and force she'd built up over time and crashed it all down into Joffrey's face and throat. It proved to be more than necessary, which made it sweeter than she expected.

Ignoring the wetness covering her right hand, she placed it on the hilt of the dagger poking out of his mouth and wiggled the blade viciously. Joffrey's eyes had gone wide and his arms flailed, nearly hitting her as blood spurted from his mouth and throat. She watched in fascinated delight the way he began to try to beat her off him but couldn't, his fists hardly hurting her at all. He couldn't make any noise, since she'd destroyed his voice box. He could only choke and burble and gurgle and it was so funny, she laughed aloud.

She wiped the creamy white wetness on her right hand, so annoyingly distracting now, on Joffrey's forehead and withdrew the knife from his mouth. An incredible spurt of blood came up and out after it and she watched it arc into the air and splatter against them both. His lungs forced out a violent cough and more blood followed. Sansa lifted the knife again and slammed it back down into his mouth, slicing his lips and tongue, his gums. She'd managed to knock loose several of his front teeth with the force of her first blow, and with the second they had fallen completely out, a couple dropping down his throat while one sailed through the air and became lost among the thick bedding. He immediately began to choke harder as the teeth slipped further down his throat. He was getting rather loud, now, so Sansa grabbed a pillow with her free hand and pressed it over his face, against the dagger hilt, to muffle his sounds and subsequently forced the dagger deeper.

His body suddenly went still and he fell silent. Sansa pulled the pillow away and leaned over. She saw that she'd impaled him to his bed through the back of his neck, and she laughed again with delight. This was turning out to be so much more satisfying than her dream.

Joffrey's eyes still moved, twitching from side to side. They were still seeing, so Sansa yanked the dagger out of his mouth and held it above his torso. She drove it down through his navel, forcing a muted breath from him as he jerked slightly, and with strength that surprised even her, Sansa dragged the blade upward through his stomach, cutting through flesh and sternum. Blood pooled up through the wound and she moved back off of him, watching the way it rolled off his belly with interest.

She leaned over him and looked into his eyes. They were cloudy like Cersei's had been. She tilted her head, watching the light in them fade slightly but not extinguish altogether.

"Good night, Joff," she whispered almost lovingly, then drove her dagger straight down through his forehead. He choked again, his eyelids barely moving, his body only giving its natural physical reflexes to the force as opposed to fighting to preserve its life. His body knew she had won.

She gave the dagger another wiggle and watched as Joffrey's eyes faded and dulled, staring blankly at a point over her shoulder. The sweet little lion of House Lannister, murdered in his own bed.

Sansa sat back and jerked her blade free. She didn't have much time to spare. She got off the bed quickly and wiped her blade clean on his sheets, then rolled it back up in her hair. She hurried to his wash basin and dipped her hands in the water, instantly turning it red as his blood washed off. When she was clean, she yanked her nightshirt over her head, then turned and pulled Joffrey's covers over him, turning his head to face away from the door. Should the guards open up and casually check on him they would think him asleep until morning.

She crossed the room to the door and opened it just wide enough to slip through, closing it behind her. She turned and saw the guards smirking at her.

"Heard His Grace enjoying himself," one of them remarked.

Sansa made herself blush and smile shyly, though adrenaline still pounded through her system. "Indeed," she murmured. "He is asleep now."

"Squalling like a scalded cat like that, I'd expect so," the other guard laughed.

Sansa frowned at them. "Do not speak of the King in such a manner," she chided and they both instantly sobered. "And do not disturb him until morning's light. He is sleeping quite peacefully."

"Yes, milady," one of the guards said. Sansa turned and padded off down the corridor, then, when she was out of sight, she ran. She burst into her bedroom and shut the door, leaning against it, and clapped a hand to her mouth. She was laughing and sobbing, hot tears brimming her eyes and spilling down her cheeks as she laughed with mirth in her heart. It was over.

She took a deep, shuddery breath, and knew she needed to be very fast now. She changed out of her nightshirt into the underclothes and heavy woolen dress Shae had laid out for her, putting sturdy shoes on her feet and tying on her cloak. She pulled the dagger from her hair and shoved it into the belt at her waist and used pieces of leather to tie her hair away from her face. She pulled the hood up and grabbed the bundle of food Shae left for her. Sansa had also packed the jewels she'd taken from the Queen's chambers. She stole silently to the window and leaned out, seeing that the rope Shae had left for her was still there and sturdily attached to the heavy wooden leg of her bed. Sansa put her bundle in her teeth and climbed down the rope, half-sliding and half-falling. She reached the ground and took off running, sticking to the shadows like Shae had said, following her directions until she was free of the castle. Shae had told her where to go from there – to the water – so Sansa stole through the night toward the harbor.

She stopped short when she saw who was waiting for her – Lord Peter Baelish.

Panic seared through her. She was caught – it was all over now. She would have her head chopped off and it would go in the place where her father's had been once. She almost vomited from the fear.

"Darling Sansa," Littlefinger's voice said in the darkness, and it was tinged with urgency. "We've no time to waste. I take it since you are here the deeds are done. We must go, now."

"Go where?" Sansa asked. "With you? How? Why?"

"I shall explain everything," Littlefinger said. "Just know I knew of your plan all along and suffice it to say, I'm thrilled about it. But now we must go, far away, before we're both caught."

"Why are you helping me?" Sansa demanded.

Littlefinger sighed. "Because I loved your mother," he answered softly, "and I promised her I would do everything in my power to keep you safe. Now, let's _go."_

Bewildered and realizing she had no other choice, Sansa allowed him to help her into the small boat and they paddled off in the night toward another harbor, where a bigger ship would carry them far, far away.

As she settled into the cabin of the ship, Sansa realized she was a murderess. No, that wasn't right. She wasn't a murderess. She had avenged her father and her family.

She was a Stark.


End file.
